


wherefore art thou come

by 75hearts



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fingon Survives the Nirnaeth, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mercy Killing, Murder, Technically A Fix-It But Also Really Really Not, Tragedy, how many tags can i use for 'no trust me it's really sad', not sure which to tag, oh god this is so sad.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 01:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20074216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: Fingon survives the Nirnaeth.Maedhros plans to march on Doriath.These things collide poorly.





	wherefore art thou come

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [wherefore art thou come 你来要做的事，就做吧](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233325) by [febgoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/febgoddess/pseuds/febgoddess)

> Some kill their love when they are young,  
And some when they are old;  
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,  
Some with the hands of Gold:  
The kindest use a knife, because  
The dead so soon grow cold.
> 
> \-- Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

They were tangled in a mess of limbs and bedsheets; the light filtering through the thick curtains was tinged by it, pink and gold. Dust hung in the air, suspended on sunbeams like tiny golden stars. Fingon did not speak, did not move his eyes to the dagger hidden in the curtains, could scarcely bring himself to breathe. The morning light felt holy only so long as it was undisturbed.

Maedhros was, of course, the first to break it. He had slept recently enough -- such was the price of visiting Fingon--but his eyes were tired still. It had been so many centuries since Fingon had seen Maedhros without creases and circles and, somewhere behind the glowing light of the Trees that still shone in his eyes, a deep and unchanging grief. “Why did you ask me here? It was not to celebrate my defeat.”

“No,” Fingon agreed. “It was not.” The dust swirled in the air. A pit settled in his gut, even as he kept his voice light. It didn’t help; the silence after he spoke was proof enough of that. 

“--Doriath,” Maedhros said, voice heavy, after pausing a moment too long. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“You know you can’t convince me.”

“And you know that  _ can’t _ has never stopped me from trying.”

“Something you and my father have in common,” Maedhros replied immediately, lips quirking in a tired imitation of amusement.

“I’m sure he would hate to hear that, were he still here.” In any other situation, Fingon might have said it with laughter or even anger. As it was, his voice felt dead on his lips.

Maedhros sighed and rolled over, running his fingers through Fingon’s braids. “Why am I here, then? If it was just that, I should leave. I swore an Oath. If you think that is terrible --”

“You are going to kill innocent people. Of course it is terrible. Don’t you dare --”

“Whether or not it is terrible doesn’t  _ matter _ . I swore an Oath to do it, and so I must.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“It is.”

“There must be another way--”

“ _ Death we will deal him ere day’s ending. This swear we all.  _ That’s it. As soon as I said those words, it was over.” Any counterfeit happiness had slid off his face. Maedhros sounded very, very tired and very, very old.

“I can’t believe that. I won’t.”

“I wish it mattered what you believed.”

“You cannot be convinced?”

“I’d love to be. But  _ there is no other way _ , not that I can see. Not that you can see, either, or you’d have led with it. It’s done.”

“You haven’t done anything yet. Nothing is done. Don’t talk like that. You haven’t done anything, and that means you don’t have to do anything, we—we have time, we can figure something out—“

Maedhros almost smiled. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

“No. No, you can’t just—accept it—“

“What else is there to do? Nothing. There’s nothing left. You know that, you have to know that.”

“I don’t. I  _ won’t _ .”

“Your heroics aren’t—there’s nothing you can  _ do  _ here. An eagle can’t save me from myself. There’s no dragon for you to drive away, there’s just—me. There isn’t anything you can do about that. You can beg, but it won’t  _ help _ , both of us know that there’s nothing you can say to fix everything. Not anymore, not for hundreds of years.”

“There has to—there  _ has _ to be a better way, there  _ has  _ to be—“

“I wish that were true. For all our sakes. I don’t—there is no other way.”

“No, no no no no  _ no _ , I don’t believe you, I  _ can’t  _ believe that.  _ There has to be another way _ .”

“There is no other way. There is nothing you can do. If there were—do you think I  _ want _ this? I don’t. If there were  _ anything _ , anything at all—no, my love. There was another way, hundreds of years ago, and no matter how much I may regret it now—I made my choice. Like knocking over a row of dominos and stepping back. Just because it hasn’t reached the end doesn’t mean I can stop it from getting there eventually. I’m sorry. I wish things were different but they  _ aren’t _ .”

Fingon squeezed his eyes shut, forced his voice steady. “Please. Just--lay down. Close your eyes. Pretend, for a minute, that we are not all Doomed. If you ever trusted me, just--give me that much.”

He could hear Maedhros’ sad smile through his eyelids. “Alright.”

“I love you,” he whispered, and--did not want to--wanted nothing but to lay there with his love and pretend with him—opened his eyes again. He was the King. It was his duty not to pretend. Maedhros was laying obediently, eyes closed, arms stretched in front of him. His distorted ribcage rose and fell.

The dagger’s sheath was a pale reddish color. Fingon had killed enough orcs to draw it silently. “I love you too,” Maedhros said, not opening his eyes,  _ trusting _ \--

Fingon brought the knife down, pushing it through the muscle between two ribs. There were tears on his cheeks. 

“Oh,” Maedhros said, eyes flashing open, voice almost disbelieving but not quite surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Fingon said, and he was sobbing in earnest, his throat closing up. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t--don’t be sorry. On the wall--I--” Maedhros coughed; the bedsheets stained with blood. “I begged you slay me. You are just--” He gasped for air, eyes already dimming. “Keeping a promise. That’s all.”

“Damn you, Maedhros.” Fingon hugged him close, driving the knife deeper, deeper, as deep as he could. “Damn you--suppose you are already damned, have been since—I—this is the second time you have made a kinslayer of me. I love you so much--I’m so  _ sorry-- _ ”

“I love you,” Maedhros said, the tips of his mouth trembling upwards. “Thank you.” His hand fell; and he was gone.

Fingon began to sob and could not stop, just held Maedhros, pressing the knife into him and holding him close as though it were one motion, held him long after he was cold and limp. Blood spread on the bed. Evidence. It didn’t matter. Things had mattered, once, other than this. Other than the unblinking silver eyes and the children laughing in Doriath who would grow strong and tall and the oversaturated crimson stain. They didn’t seem to, particularly, any more. 

He had thanked Fingon for it, in the end. He was not so far gone as to—

He was—

He was gone, now. That was the thing that mattered, the terrible hole that ached in its vacancy. Maedhros was gone: all his good deeds and his bad, all that he might have done, all the love and long-lost laughter—it was vanished in earnest, now. And Fingon had done it. 

It had been so many years since he had rescued Maedhros for the first time. On the eagle coming home, he had let himself hope he would not need to do it again. But here he was. He had done it. 

Doriath was safe. He had done the right thing. He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself for it. It would have been easy to be angry, to regret, but for the knowledge that the alternative—letting him live, letting him march, letting him massacre—would have been so much worse. That neither of them could have forgiven themselves, after that. He held Maedhros’ body, colder every second, and he knew, with a certainty that lodged uncomfortably in his stomach, that he would never quite be able to repent.


End file.
